Viper of the North

Chapter 15

Dawn broke over southern Moesia, and with it came the babbling of scores of meltwater brooks. The thousand men of the XI Claudia spliced the land, marching south in an iron fin topped column towards Marcianople. Then, as the morning wore on towards noon, the snow gradually became dappled with patches of green where a thaw had begun. For the first time in months, the air was mild. But in every Roman heart, the ice had yet to thaw.

They had overtaken huge trains of Gothic women, children and elderly headed for Marcianople. But they had little hope of catching the huge sprawl of some seven thousand of Fritigern’s spearmen, miles ahead, let alone the vanguard of some three thousand Gothic riders that would already be at the city’s walls.

In the Moesian countryside all around them, Roman landworkers, slaves and estate owners stood together as one; frightened and confused by the massive horde of Goths that had swept down the Roman highway that morning, fully armed and unchecked. They called out to Gallus, Lupicinus, Salvian and Tarquitius at the head of the Roman column, pleading to be told what was happening, before rushing to join the rabble of Roman citizens in the column’s wake.

Pavo marched near the front of the third cohort, first century, alongside Sura. He cast frequent glances over his shoulder to the rear of the column where this rabble of Roman citizens followed. He prayed that Felicia and the folk of Durostorum were either in that rabble or had heeded Gallus’ hasty orders. Take word to Durostorum and the outlying towns and farms; they are to head south, to seek shelter in Thracia. The walls of Adrianople and the surrounding cities will protect them.

Pavo had scanned their faces again and again, but there was no sign of Felicia and her father in that lot.

‘She’ll be safe,’ Sura said, beside him. ‘She’s a smart one.’

Pavo gave his friend an unconvincing smile. ‘Too smart for her own good.’

Then they slowed as the column narrowed a little to filter across a fragile-looking timber bridge. The structure straddled the River Beli Lom — a narrow, twisting and deep waterway with spruce and beech thickets dotting its steep banks. Pavo frowned as he saw Gallus despatch a group of five legionaries from the head of the column to the rear, where they stopped the driver of the slow and cumbersome wagon at the tail end. He watched as the wagon slowed to a halt at the northern bridgehead, and the legionaries began unloading its contents; coils of rope and lengths of timber. The kit looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he had seen it before.

Then an elbow jabbed him in the chest, and he twisted to face front again.

‘We must be near, look,’ Sura pointed to the columns of what he prayed was hearth smoke just over the rise ahead.

Pavo fixed his gaze on the plumes. His stomach shrivelled and he felt his bladder swell — the usual prelude to any battle. ‘Perhaps the ambassador can still find a diplomatic route to bring Fritigern back from the precipice?’

Sura looked up. ‘Eh? Salvian? I doubt he’ll get the opportunity. The time for talking is past.’

Pavo shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. Fritigern still has a good heart. If he can be persuaded to talk, there might be a chance.’

They marched until the rise fell away to reveal a verdant plain, frosted but mercifully snow-free. To the east, the hills tapered to reveal the distant blue waters of the Pontus Euxinus. To the west, patchwork farmland hugged the hills, punctuated by thickets of pine forest. Then the shimmering limestone hulk of Marcianople rose into view with its tall, sturdy walls and towers, and the hardy but few limitanei legionaries lining the battlements. It would have been a sight to warm any Roman heart had it not been for the swarm of thousands upon thousands of baying Goths pressing around the base of those walls.

Wrapped inside the walls, domes and red-tiled roofs jostled for space, an indication of city’s rise to prominence in recent years. The church dome towered higher than any other, a gold Chi-Rho cross extending into the clear sky. Pavo wondered if the Christianised Goths amongst those surrounding the city might hesitate upon seeing the symbol. But already, timber and vine ladders were being passed forward and leaned against the walls, reaching the battlements. The Goths were riled, just waiting on the order to fall upon the city. Before the main gate, Fritigern was mounted and as ever Ivo was by his side. The pair seemed to be berating the wall guard, gesticulating towards the high-arched and iron-studded gate, shut tight. Then, to add to their leader’s voice, a Gothic roar caused the land to shake and many of the rawer recruits to shrink, such was its ferocity. Then it fell sharply into silence, as Ivo raised his hands.

‘The empire has betrayed us!’ Ivo roared. ‘They promised us food and let us march on our last trace of strength. The Romans must be punished!’

As they neared the Goths, Pavo noticed Lupicinus and his riders slowing, dropping back down the column. He frowned, seeing the comes’ face etched with fright, knuckles white and trembling on his mount’s reins. Then Lupicinus shuffled in his saddle as if readying to. .

‘Mithras, no!’ Pavo gasped in realisation.

Lupicinus’ blood ran cold and panic welled in his heart as he gawped at the baying Goths staining the plain, wrapped around the city like a noose. So many of them. So many sharp blades. They’re going to cut us to pieces. They will slice the flesh from my bones!

In the few battles he had fought in his time, the odds had never been this grim and he had managed to remain safely tucked into the rearmost ranks. Victory and survival had lifted him to his current post. Yet today, there would be no hiding, he realised, his limbs quivering. And his tarnished reputation would no doubt live on. The shame and ridicule from his early career would be his legacy.

At that moment he felt a surge of regret. Why had he let the bitterness of his childhood follow him through the rest of his life like a vile stench? Why oh why had he not ignored his father’s jibes and pursued a career in the senate regardless? He remembered that childhood day, on the shore outside the city of Odessus, when he had first gauged his father’s disgust at his craven nature. He had been playing happily in the sand, collecting shells and splashing in the shallows. Then, a scowling, pug-nosed boy had picked a fight with him, butting him back with the palms of his hands. Lupicinus had first felt the terror on that day; his breath short, his skin clammy and cold, his mind awash with confusion. He had looked to his father, sat nearby on the shingle, supping wine by the skinful, face red from inebriation and sun. ‘Help!’ He had cried out, reaching one hand to his father. ‘Fight back, you coward!’ Was all the help he received. The pug-nosed boy had beaten him to the ground and then rained blow after blow upon him unchecked. When at last the boy had finally grown bored and left, Lupicinus had squinted through swollen eyes, tasting the metallic tang of his own blood washing down the back of his throat. His father had stood over him, sneering, breath reeking of stale wine. ‘You’re no son of mine if you can’t fight, you coward!’

Something stung behind Lupicinus’ eyes and he felt them moisten. Then reality pushed the memories away as he heard Iudex Fritigern’s voice pierce the air.

‘Your emperor granted us access to your horreas and all the grain they hold, so you will open the gates, or we will smash them from their hinges. Do not presume that you could resist my armies. We may not possess siege engines, but I have enough men to pull your walls down by hand. And when my men fall upon your people, I can no longer be held responsible for what will happen to them.’

Lupicinus’ guts turned over at this. He realised that he and his riders were dropping back as the marching legionaries kept up the pace set by Tribunus Gallus. Then, as the column approached the rear of the Gothic swell, the warriors there turned, braced and ready for conflict, presenting a wall of spears to the Romans. Behind them were Gothic women, children and elderly; gaunt, pale and with black-ringed eyes, their usually well-groomed hair tousled and dirty. They reeked dangerously of desperation. Then, they split apart like curtains, opening up a spear-walled corridor leading to Ivo and Fritigern.

At the head of the column, Gallus did not hesitate, leading them into the corridor. Lupicinus and his riders were the last to enter. He could feel the baleful glares of the Goths burning on his skin and the speartips hung just an arm’s reach away on either side of him. Every muscle in his body twitched, longing to pull the reins and heel his mount into a turn and then a gallop out of the Gothic mass and far from this plain. Yes, he affirmed, my men will understand, they will ride with me. He stabbed out his tongue to dampen his lips, then glanced over his shoulder. But the faces of his men were stony. They were not for turning. In each of their eyes he saw his father roaring at him. Make your mark, you coward!

Worse, the Gothic corridor had closed up behind the column, like a predator devouring a meal. Panic rippled through him, and he shuffled in his saddle, wide-eyed. There was no going back. His heart thundered until he thought it would explode from his chest, when suddenly, an idea formed amongst the chaos in his mind.

He looked to the walls and saw safety behind the timber, iron studded gates. He filled his lungs.

‘Forward!’ He bellowed, digging his heels into his mount’s flanks and tearing his spatha from his scabbard, pointing it directly at Ivo and Fritigern. ‘Take down the leaders!’ Lupicinus roared. As he set off, his riders threw their confusion to one side and followed their comes.

And while they fight, I can reach safety, Lupicinus affirmed, before shouting up to the gatehouse. ‘Open the gates!’ Then he lowered himself in his saddle. The sea of stunned Gothic faces gawped as he hared forward. The men in the Roman column yelled out in anger and confusion, while those atop the gatehouse frowned at his calls for the gates to be opened. But they don’t understand; I’m not a soldier, I’m not meant to be here. The gates were growing closer and closer. All he had to do was swerve past Fritigern and Ivo and he was there. Surely they would open the gates for him? Inside the city he would be safe. To Hades with you, Father!

Then the iron-clad, mounted figure of Gallus swung into his path, face burning with ire. Three legionaries flanked him on either side, presenting a Roman spearwall to protect Fritigern and Ivo.

‘Halt!’ Gallus roared.

Lupicinus’ heart leapt and he reined in his mount, the beast skidding and the riders behind him toppling from their saddles. The comes’ wild gaze swept over Gallus and those flanking the tribunus. Then his eyes locked onto Pavo.

Pavo returned the stare, his top lip curling to reveal gritted teeth, his spearpoint resting by Lupicinus’ heart.

Lupicinus’ hands grew slack on the reins and his shoulders slumped. His mind drifted and his eyes grew distant.

Then a lone voice taunted him in his mind.

You coward!

Gallus raised a pleading hand to Fritigern, then trotted over to Lupicinus, grappling his wrist, shaking the sword from his grip. ‘You imbecile! You could have killed us all!’

But Lupicinus’ face was ghostly white and his gaze was far-off.

Gallus frowned. Then, finally, the comes twisted his head round to look straight through him, his lips moving but the words carried no feeling. ‘Dux Vergilius. . will hear of your. . insubordination.’

Gallus gripped his wrist and hissed in his ear. ‘That fat sot hears only the gurgle of wine disappearing down his throat. Here and now our actions could save the empire. . or end it!’ He glared at Lupicinus, anticipating another retort, but the comes was lost somewhere behind his own eyes. Then, the reflection of Ivo grew in Lupicinus’ pupils.

Gallus steeled himself and turned to face the giant warrior.

‘Odd behaviour for an ally?’ Ivo sneered. ‘I feared we would have to slay you and your column in self-defence, Tribunus.’ The sea of spears and arrows poised around the scrawny Roman column creaked and rippled as if in agreement.

Gallus hesitated for a moment, then looked Ivo in the eye. ‘This was a dreadful miscalculation by my comes. Just as some of your riders broke rank when you first crossed into the empire.’ Then he turned to Fritigern. ‘I apologise unreservedly for this incident. Thanks to Mithras and Wodin that no blood was spilled.’

‘Yet the gates are shut, Tribunus. My people will still perish from hunger,’ Fritigern spoke coldly.

Gallus held the iudex’s gaze. ‘Grain will be delivered to your people.’

Fritigern frowned. ‘You will open the gates?’

Gallus shook his head.

Fritigern snorted. ‘Then don’t waste your breath, Tribunus.’ He looked around his people, then up to the walls. ‘This reeks of trickery; perhaps Rome thought she could spring some kind of trap upon my armies here, below your fine city walls?’ Fritigern spread out his arms to the surrounding countryside. ‘Well I see no reason to be fearful. My armies could shatter anything the empire was to throw at it,’ he leaned forward, wagging one finger at Gallus, ‘and you know this.’

‘It does indeed reek of trickery,’ Gallus replied, his eyes narrowing on Ivo. ‘Unfortunately, I fear both your people and mine have been tricked.’

Ivo looked back, his face expressionless.

Gallus glanced to Salvian, a few ranks back; the ambassador almost imperceptibly shook his head. One word rang in his thoughts. Proof. He suppressed a growl of frustration. To obtain proof would require time, and they had precious little of that.

‘But let us put this to one side and focus on the vital issue — your people need grain, as do mine. And I can assure you, Iudex Fritigern, that we are still bound as strongly as ever by our truce.’

‘No,’ Fritigern hissed, ‘this has gone too far. Too many concessions have been made. We came to you under truce, seeking refuge. Yet we have been subjected to rape, murder, starvation and humiliation!’

‘I beg for your patience, Iudex Fritigern. Grain could be here, in front of you, by morning,’ Gallus said, the tension tight in his voice. ‘Surely the promise of peace is worth one more night of patience?’ At this, the surrounding Goths fell silent.

‘Do not make promises you cannot fulfil, Tribunus. It will be worse for all your people in the longer term.’

Gallus looked Fritigern in the eye, his face gaunt and unsmiling. ‘I do not make false promises.’ A breeze whistled over them as they eyed one another in silence. ‘It is possible. Difficult, but possible,’ Gallus continued. ‘You would have to provide wagons and riders though, say two hundred of each. My turma of cavalry will lead your men to the settlements nearby. We could pull together enough to see us through a few more weeks.’

Fritigern made to reply, then stopped as Ivo whispered in his ear. Gallus’ eyes narrowed at this. Fritigern seemed to mull over the giant’s words for some time, before finally shaking his head, drawing a barely disguised sneer of disgust from Ivo.

The Gothic Iudex looked up, then beckoned a tall rider with topknotted locks and a decorated red leather cuirass. ‘Gunter, muster your riders.’ The rider nodded and wheeled away on his mount, then Fritigern looked back to Gallus. ‘You have until sunrise, Tribunus.’ Then he placed a hand over his heart and pointed to the Chi-Rho above the church basilica, then pointed to the wooden idol of Mithras Gallus was clasping in his hand. ‘After that, no god can help you and your empire.’

The waxing moon flitted between the scudding clouds in an otherwise pitch-black night. Mercifully, spring had taken hold of the land at last and the air was pleasant. Amidst the sea of Gothic tents and campfires surrounding Marcianople, a small, neatly aligned block of contubernium tents offered a semblance of order to the chaos of the day just passed; the XI Claudia legionaries were posted here outside the walls whilst Lupicinus and two centuries of his comitatenses had quickly volunteered to bolster the city garrison.

Inside his contubernium tent, Pavo lay stretched out on his cot. He had lain there for what felt like an eternity, studying the shadows cast by a guttering candle on the roof of the tent. He struggled to see how tomorrow could be anything other than his last day; the end of the XI Claudia and perhaps the beginning of the end of the empire? On and on his thoughts churned until, almost surreptitiously, sleep crept across him. He felt the jabbering of his ruminations become distant, and his eyelids grew heavy. Then the nightmare came to him again.

‘Father?’ He called out, reaching for the hunched, tired old man before him. His heart wept at the sight. The once-proud legionary seemed to be fading before him. ‘Take my hand, before it is too late!’ He roared, glancing nervously around the peaceful dunes. The sandstorm would come any moment now, and when it did, Father would be gone again.

But this time, the sandstorm did not come.

Then Pavo realised that Tarquitius was standing by his side. The senator carried a writhing viper on his shoulders; the beast’s scales glistened as it wrapped around him, as if soothing him.

‘Senator?’ Pavo said uncertainly.

But Tarquitius’ eyes were glassy and distant. He did not hear Pavo’s words.

Then the viper slipped around Tarquitius’ neck and its head rose up behind him, tensing, broadening. Its jaw dislocated and stretched wide, fangs bared and dripping venom, throat gaping, ready to devour. Yet Tarquitius was oblivious to this.

‘Senator!’ Pavo stumbled back, horrified. The snake readied to sink its fangs into Tarquitius’ skull. The man would die and the truth would die with him.

Suddenly, Pavo felt the weight of a spatha in his hand. At once, he hefted the blade towards the creature, but the snake slipped free of the senator at the last moment. With a punch of ripping meat, the blade scythed halfway through Senator Tarquitius’ neck. Blood pumped from the wound like an ocean, flooding the sands until Tarquitius’ body was shrivelled and shrunken to the size of a peach stone. Pavo stared, repulsed at the sight. Then he saw the tip of the viper’s tail slip under the sand.

The first stinging grains of the sandstorm danced against his face, and Pavo remembered where he was. He shot his gaze back to the nearby dune, looking for Father.

But the dune was empty. Father was gone.

Pavo’s thoughts raced. Then he filled his lungs and clasped the phalera.

‘If there is a truth about you that I must know, then I will find it!’ He cried out over the empty dunes.

Pavo blinked, realising he was sitting bolt upright, slick with sweat. The candle had burnt out, and it was still dark outside. He rubbed at his temples as the angst of the nightmare slipped away. Then he sighed at the sight of Sura in the nearby cot, snoring like a boar, as if tomorrow was just another day. Apart from Sura, the tent was empty; evidently many of the legionaries had found sleep hard to come by. He lay back in his cot, determined to sleep again.

It seems the Viper is even infiltrating my nightmares, he stifled a wry chuckle as he shuffled into a more comfortable position. As he did so, his drowsy gaze fell upon a shadowy shape by the tent flap. Did it just move? He rubbed his eyes, sure it was just the residue of sleep in his mind. But his nightmares swirled with all that had happened in these last months: the Viper’s riders, embedded within Fritigern’s horde, operating under cover of night, slipping into Goth and Roman tents to slit throats and pillage grain.

Then the shape glided forward like a shade, cloaked and hooded. Panic gripped Pavo’s every sinew.

Was this the Viper himself? The hooded shade in the green cloak, the one who plots the end for all Rome?

Pavo scrambled backwards from his cot, clawing out for his spatha and hopping up to standing, pointing the blade at the figure. Then he smelt a sweet, floral scent, saw the slender shoulders and curve of hips. He hesitated, sword in hand.

‘I was going to surprise you by slipping into your cot,’ Felicia whispered, stepping into a patch of dull torchlight from outside and lowering her hood. Then she let the cloak fall from her shoulders and her amber locks tumbled down her back and chest. She wore a close-fitting blue tunic and brown leggings. ‘I thought you might be pleased to see me, but not this pleased.’

Pavo frowned then blushed, realising that he held the spatha hilt near his groin, the tip hovering near Felicia’s breasts. ‘I. . oh, sorry.’ Then he sheathed the sword, and a dreadful realisation crept over him. ‘Felicia, it sickened me to think you might not have got out of Durostorum safely, but this is the worst place you could have come to.’

‘But I am here,’ she spoke flatly. ‘I followed the column, rode alongside the wagons.’

‘Then I should never have taught you to ride,’ Pavo spoke in scorn, but then couldn’t resist melting into a smile when he saw her eyes sparkle in the gloom.

‘I think we’ve taught each other a thing or two in the last year,’ she cocked an eyebrow.

Pavo chuckled, then composed himself, gripping her by the shoulders. ‘I’m serious, Felicia, it’s dangerous here; if grain does not come by morning, war could be upon us. The enemy are wrapped around us and Marcianople like a noose, ready to snap shut. You should head further south, to Adrianople.’

‘I will, when the time is right. Father is already there, looking for a place for us to stay. Yet I fear for what might happen there — the city will be like a hive in a few days and grain is surely as sparse there as anywhere else?’

Pavo slumped to sit on his cot. ‘Aye, trouble lies in every direction, it seems.’

Felicia sat next to him, clasping his hand in hers. ‘Perhaps we should forget about what happens next, if only for a short while?’

Pavo saw that she eyed the empty cots around the tent with a frown. Then she checked herself and the sparkle in her eyes returned and she pouted, her lips full and soft. ‘Perhaps,’ he leaned closer.

Then a grunt from behind broke them apart.

‘What’s going on?’ Sura propped himself up on one arm, squinting, a foul look on his face. ‘Felicia? What’re you doing h. . ’ then his face fell and he sighed. He picked up his cloak and stomped for the tent flap. ‘I’ll be outside.’

Pavo smirked at this. Payback, he reckoned, considering the number of times he had spent the night trudging aimlessly while his friend ‘entertained’ the local women of Durostorum.

Felicia pulled him back to her.

He held a hand to her shoulders. ‘Just promise me that you will ride from here, before dawn.’

She glanced again to the empty cots, eyes narrowing. ‘I promise.’

With that their lips pressed together. They kissed hungrily and Pavo smoothed his hands over her curves, cupping her breasts, caressing her buttocks. It had been so long since they had been together like this. She pulled off her tunic and leggings and Pavo slid off his tunic. In the dim light, they pressed together, then fell back in a tangle of lust.

Gunter the horseman sucked in a breath of fresh night air and looked back to the orange glow emanating from the Roman port-citadel of Odessus. The wall guard had braced in alarm at the sight of his Gothic riders approaching, their bows stretched, ready to unleash on the foreign cavalrymen. Fortunately, the escort of Roman equites sagittarii cavalrymen had raced to the front to explain that they were friendly. And so, despite stubborn resistance initially from the Roman governor, they had completed their mission and acquired the precious grain — just enough to stave off hunger and war for now.

He thought of his wife, skeletal and feverish after weeks of starvation since their flight from Peuce Island on the Danubius delta. But she refused to eat, giving everything over to their son. Young Alaric possessed a sharp mind and was growing into a tall and powerful boy for his age. But even he was flagging after a sustained diet of boiled grass and indigestible root.

‘But now the famine is over!’ Gunter spoke aloud, looking up to the sky, touching a hand to the bronze Christian Chi-Rho amulet around his neck and allowing himself a smile for the first time in so long. Perhaps this religion that was spreading from the empire like wildfire was the true faith after all? At this, habit kicked in and he whispered a word of apology to Allfather Wodin.

With that, he heeled his mount into a turn and then a gallop. His topknot swirled in his wake as he entered the forest to catch up with the train of mules and wagons. The grain sacks heaped on the beasts and vehicles had taken on a treasure-like quality, with Roman and Goth riders alike eyeing the haul with wide eyes, no doubt scenting the fresh-baked bread it would soon become.

The forest floor was cool and damp and mercifully almost clear of snow. The pace had slowed a little due to the terrain, but so long as they pushed on, nothing could stop them reaching Marcianople before dawn. He raised his hand and punched the air as he galloped to the fore of the column, filling his lungs, ready to emit a roar of encouragement.

But that breath stayed in his lungs.

Up ahead, on the forest path, a figure loomed.

A lone rider shrouded in a dark-green, hooded cloak, mounted on a jet-black stallion.

‘Who goes there?’ Gunter called out, squinting at the ethereal figure.

The rider remained motionless, head bowed. The mount’s breath clouded in the night air.

Gunter held up one hand, slowing the column. ‘I said, who goes there?’

The rider’s hood shuffled, looking up. The shadow where a face should have been seemed to pierce Gunter’s armour. Then the rider raised a hand only a few inches from the reins of the mount and extended one finger. All was silent for a moment. Then the figure swiped the finger down.

Gunter’s eyes grew wide as the treeline either side of the column rippled. He caught sight of hundreds of speartips that emerged. Then he saw the dark-green snake banner the rogue warriors carried. The Viper has come for us! His stomach fell away as he realised what was about to happen. He mouthed the first words of a prayer for his wife and little Alaric, then a cloud of arrows tore through his face, neck, thighs and arms.

Gunter of the Thervingi slid from the saddle, the life gone from his body as it hit the ground like a sack of wet sand. All around him, screaming rang out as a wave of the Viper’s Goths sprang from the woods and clamped onto the column like wolves, longswords raised. The riders of the grain column, Romans and Goths, fought for each other in vain as the jaws of the trap slammed shut upon them.

When the last of the felled riders’ throats had been slit, a chant broke out from the victors. ‘Vi-per! Vi-per! Vi-per!’

The green-cloaked rider trotted forward.

‘Now burn the wagons, burn the bodies, burn the grain. . let them starve. . ’

Then the rider raised a clenched fist and pulled on the stallion’s reins so the beast reared up.

‘Bring me war!’

Pavo stirred from a second bout of sleep, blessedly nightmare free. He rubbed one leg against the other in the warm comfort of his blankets as he came to. Then, patting the other half of his cot, he realised he was alone. Felicia was gone.

He sat up; all around him, the rest of his contubernium were present in the form of slumbering shapes under blankets. The usual chorus of rumbling emissions of gas and grating snores punctuated the stillness, Centurion Quadratus being the main culprit.

He crept from his cot and pulled back the tent flap: it was still dark outside, though a purple band on the eastern horizon, beyond the forest, heralded the first coming of dawn. His gut shrivelled as he stepped outside, rubbing his arms at the stark chill. The grain column was nowhere to be seen.

‘Tomorrow is almost upon us,’ a voice spoke.

Pavo spun round. Salvian was standing just behind him, hands clasped behind his back, dressed in a clean, high-necked tunic, woollen trousers and muddied riding boots. The ambassador’s face betrayed no fear, despite the weighty truth behind his words. ‘Are you frightened, Pavo?’

Pavo shook his head, realising that he was not; all his ruminations had been for the safety of Felicia, for Sura, Gallus and the veterans. For Salvian. ‘I have a duty,’ he patted his scabbard. ‘And that’s not haughty talk, ambassador.’

Salvian smiled at this. ‘You have faith in Tribunus Gallus’ plan; the grain column?’

‘I would march with that man until the bones in my feet crumbled,’ he replied.

‘That’s not an answer,’ Salvian chuckled.

Pavo looked to Salvian. ‘Let’s just say I have come to expect the unexpected, to prepare for the worst.’ He looked to the first sliver of sun that appeared over the horizon, then turned to the ambassador with a frown. ‘You could ride from here you know, if things turn nasty. Nobody would expect an ambassador to stand and fight with the legion.’

Salvian issued a wry half-smile. ‘I don’t run from my problems, lad, never have.’

Pavo sighed at this, and held the ambassador’s gaze. ‘You are one of the wisest, shrewdest men I have ever known, but you should not underestimate how fast a battle can spread — it is like wildfire. I’ll be fighting at the front with Gallus and the veterans, but should we fall. . ’

Salvian cut him off, placing a hand on Pavo’s shoulder. ‘Your father would have been proud to know the man his son has grown to be.’

A silence hung in the air, and Pavo felt his heart swell with pride.

‘Now,’ Salvian said, ‘put my safety from your mind, for Gallus has other plans for me anyway. He wants me to help organise the Roman refugees. To lead them north, back to the far side of the River Beli Lom.’

‘Then make haste, and I wish you safe passage,’ Pavo nodded. ‘Until we meet again.’

The pair shared a wistful gaze and then went their separate ways.

Pavo turned to head back to his tent, passing the centre of the Roman encampment and the silver eagle and ruby bull banner of the XI Claudia standing proudly near Gallus’ tent. Dawn would break soon and there would be one hundred thousand starving Goths expecting a delivery of grain. He mused over whether there would be any point in starting a campfire for his contubernium to cook breakfast upon, given that most of them only had quarter rations of hardtack left.

Spotting some discarded kindling, he stooped to pick it up anyway. When he stood upright again, a cloaked, hooded figure flitted past the tents before him. The figure was tall and the cloak was. . he froze.

The cloak was dark-green.

Pavo’s blood iced.

Calm yourself! He tried to brush it off — many Goths wore green and there were a few Goths and Romans up and about already. He affirmed that it was just some residual unease from last night’s nightmare. But something wasn’t right: the movement of the figure was odd; stealthy and swift, and it stopped every so often, casting a glance this way and that, like a hunting predator.

Pavo peered through the gap between the tents; the figure seemed to be making for the city gates. The wall guards above the main gate gazed to the eastern horizon in hope of sighting the grain column, and were oblivious as the figure crept up to the well-bolted, iron-studded gates.

Then the figure halted at the gates and shot a glance around, the shadow where a face should have been scouring the camp for observers.

Pavo ducked behind the tent, his heart thudding until he heard the noise of knuckles gently rapping on wood. He risked a glance up; the figure waited by the small hatch near the edge of the gate, a section about half the height of a man used to allow controlled access without opening the gates in full. Pavo frowned, then his heart froze as the hatch opened, and a hand beckoned the figure inside. As the green-cloaked figure slipped into the city, the blubbery features of Senator Tarquitius poked out of the hatch, etched with guilt and fear, snatching a glance in every direction.

‘You treacherous dog!’ Pavo hissed under his breath, ‘what ruin are you concocting now?’

The hatch swung shut and he stayed behind the tent and watched, hoping for more activity, something of substance to follow up on. He suddenly felt conspicuous as the horizon changed from purple to dark orange and a few more Romans emerged from their tents. Frustrated, he pushed away from the tent and headed for his own. He glanced round once more at the walls, sure there was something more to deduce, but all was normal, sentries gazing east in silence.

Then he saw it.

For just the briefest of moments, the dark-green hood appeared behind the battlements, just above the gates. The sentries were oblivious to the figure’s presence, the twin gate towers blocking their view. Pavo watched as the figure wrapped its fingers over the crenellations, shaded features scanning the ground outside the gate. Pavo froze as the figure’s gaze swept past him, then stopped and darted back to him. At that moment, Pavo felt as if he was in the sights of a master archer.

‘Morning, sir,’ a croaky voice spoke next to him.

Pavo started, turning to the red-eyed legionary who had shuffled from a tent nearby. It was one of the younger recruits — barely sixteen by the looks of it — from the now disbanded fifty he had led to Istrita. Pavo nodded stiffly, embarrassed and proud of the salutation at the same time. ‘Morning,’ Pavo replied. ‘Glad you’re in our ranks for what lies ahead today, soldier.’

‘Likewise, sir.’ The young lad smiled and saluted, then marched off to the latrine pits.

Pavo’s smile faded and he spun back to the battlements. The space between the gate towers was empty. He squinted, sure he had seen someone up there. Perhaps my many nights of demi-sleep have finally caught up with me, he realised with a wry shake of the head. He walked through the Roman tent rows and turned into the one that would lead to his. He welcomed the thought of the scathing banter that would no doubt break out between the contubernia over yet another scant breakfast. It was the way the soldiers dealt with the brutal realities of their work; when you served in the limitanei, every morning could be your last, and this morning especially so. He glanced sombrely to the treeline to the east: the tip of the sun had pierced the horizon and still no sight nor sound of the grain column. And the Goths were gathering. He frowned, clutching the phalera medallion, detecting the first needles of trepidation in his gut that usually came in the hours before conflict.

His tent and those around it were still free of activity. Lazy bastards, he thought to himself with a chuckle. Then he froze where he stood.

A figure was crouched by his tent flap — this time in a black cloak and hood. Pavo’s breath stilled when he saw the glint of a dagger in the figure’s hand. The figure reached out to open the tent flap, the dagger held overhand.

Pavo rushed forward, throwing himself at the figure. With a thud, the pair were interlocked, tumbling in the dewy grass. The dagger flew from the figure’s grasp and landed paces away. Pavo sensed victory as he pinned the figure down with his knees, then pulled a fist back to strike the face, semi-obscured by the hood. Then a floral, sweet scent curled up his nostrils and he heard whimpering. His fist relaxed and his face fell as he saw the milky-white skin of the figure’s face, the end of an amber lock tumbling free of the hood.

‘Felicia?’ He groaned, pulling the hood back. Behind it, her face was wrinkled with emotion, the kohl staining her eyes having run across her cheeks in a flurry of tears, smearing her beauty.

‘Will you please do away with that cloak!’ He said as he helped her to her feet.

But she briskly shrugged him off, teeth gritted and bared, nostrils flared.

Pavo searched her tormented expression for some clue as to what to say. He stepped forward, arms outstretched to clasp her shoulders, but she stepped back as if he was a stranger. ‘Felicia? What’s going on? Why were you going into the tent. . with that?’ he gestured to the dagger.

Felicia was sucking in deep breaths now, composing herself. She wiped her eyes, further smearing the kohl over her cheeks, then stood straight, fixing her hair behind her ears. ‘You wouldn’t understand, Pavo, and it’s best for you that you don’t.’

Pavo dropped his arms to his sides with a sigh. ‘All those times when I came to visit you at the inn and you had that dark look in your eyes and you would ignore me. Each time I would leave, thinking we were through, but I’d still go back. You know why? Because sometimes, just sometimes, I’d be lucky enough to catch you when you were yourself, smiling, joking. That’s the girl that caught my eye when I first joined the legion. Yet I feel like that girl is lost somewhere. . ’ he raised his hands and glanced all around in frustration, then back at Felicia. ‘Now this?’

She looked down to her left with firm lips. ‘Perhaps that girl has been a guise?’

Pavo felt her words like a blow to the guts, but he didn’t let it show. ‘No, you’re lying. Every time we’ve lain together I’ve seen true happiness in your eyes. It’s like you’ve set down a massive burden from your shoulders for those moments. Don’t you want to be that girl more often?’

Her lips trembled and she covered her face with her hands. ‘How can I?’ She whispered, tears escaping the cracks between her fingers. ‘How can I when my brother’s killer walks free?’

Pavo’s heart sank and he closed his eyes. Curtius — of course. His mind reeled through all those times Felicia had seemed so interested in the whereabouts of certain veterans. He’d never linked it with her dark moods, until now. Of all the soldiers he shared the tent with, only Quadratus and Avitus had served in the Claudia long enough to have been there when Curtius was in the ranks. His eyes widened.

‘You think it was. . ’ he started.

Felicia blinked the tears away and held his gaze. ‘I know it was Quadratus.’ She clenched her fists.

Pavo shook his head, an incredulous smile growing on his face. ‘Felicia, you’re wrong. Quadratus is a gruff big whoreson, but probably one of the best-hearted men I’ve ever fought alongside. He’d be more likely to throw himself in front of a dagger that was aimed at a fellow legionary than to harm one of them.’ He gripped her wrists, holding her gaze. ‘I know this!’

She offered him a pitying, almost apologetic look. ‘I’m sorry, Pavo, but it was Quadratus. Of that, there is no doubt.’ She rummaged in her cloak and pulled out a yellowed, frayed scroll and held it up as if to underline her argument. ‘This memo came from none other than the Speculatores.’

‘The emperor’s agents?’

She nodded. ‘Curtius was working for them too — that’s why I know the seal is from them.’ Her face fell stony. ‘Pavo, Curtius was killed by another agent — in the XI Claudia fort.’

‘You think Quadratus is a speculatore?’ Pavo pulled back a little. ‘He’s a fine soldier, a lion on the battlefield, but he’s about as stealthy and subtle as an onager being pulled down stairs.’

Felicia did not flinch. ‘Then why did I find this scroll concealed in the mortar by his bunk?’

Pavo’s face fell. He raked over his thoughts. Surely Quadratus was no imposter? He had shed blood with the big Gaul on the battlefield and the giant had saved him on more than one occasion. She was mistaken, surely. Then his thoughts spun to a stop on one unremarkable day in the fort. Pavo had walked in to find Quadratus and his good friend Avitus playing dice on the floor. The rest of the contubernium were stood around them, coins clutched in their hands, placing bets. When he had asked Zosimus what was going on, the big Thracian had replied: Avitus wants the top bunk, Quadratus told him where to go, I suggested a wager and so here we are!

‘That was Avitus’ bunk,’ he muttered absently and his heart sank. The little bald Roman was one of the trusted few, the core men of the legion that Gallus had built around him. He had got to know Avitus well in this last year, but only well enough to know that there was some dark core that pulled and twisted at his moods, especially when they drank together.

‘Pavo?’ Felicia frowned, grappling at his tunic. ‘Say it again.’

Pavo’s face fell. ‘They swapped bunks about six months ago, not long after the mission to the Kingdom of Bosporus.’

She clasped a hand over her mouth. ‘Then I would have. . ’

Pavo wrapped an arm around her, pulling her head into his chest. ‘You have done nothing, Felicia. Be thankful for that.’

She pushed back. ‘But now I know who must pay for Curtius’ death.’

Pavo reached out to her, but she stepped away, looking for her dagger. ‘Felicia, please, don’t do anything, at least not now. Please, let us talk over this more when,’ he stopped as an amber light washed across them, the sun was now half-risen. ‘Just promise me one thing,’ he pleaded, ‘that you will do nothing until we have talked over this later?’

She neither nodded nor shook her head. Instead her eyes grew distant as if in thought.

Then, the still and quiet of dawn was torn asunder by the wail of the Gothic horns.

Pavo’s skin crawled at the clatter of iron weapons and armour being donned. He looked all around the camp to see that the Goths were mustering. His thoughts spun; the green-cloaked figure on the battlements, Felicia, the missing grain column. Then he grappled her firmly by the shoulders. ‘Get to your horse and ride, Felicia, ride as fast as you can and don’t look back. Get to Adrianople, get to your father and stay there.’

He held her cold glare firmly.

‘All Hades is coming to this plain!’

Hearing the war horns, Gallus hurried to buckle his swordbelt, then slipped on his plumed intercisa helmet. The grain column was nowhere to be seen and this day would see much blood.

He hesitated before leaving his tent, lifted the idol of Mithras from his purse and kissed it. ‘Let today bring me one step closer to you, Olivia,’ he whispered.

Then he spun as someone pushed into his tent. Pavo. The young legionary’s face was wrinkled in consternation.

‘Sir, this may be nothing, but. . ’

‘Speak!’ Gallus barked.

‘I saw something, a figure, stealing into the city. Only moments ago.’

Gallus cocked an eyebrow. ‘What of it? The gates are well guarded. Only trusted men would be allowed in and out.’

‘But this figure was dressed in a hooded, green cloak, sir,’ Pavo replied, his face grave.

Gallus hesitated for a moment. The green cloak and the myth of the Viper had haunted his dreams for weeks now. But half-sightings and rumour were but a distraction on a morning such as this. ‘Ah,’ he feigned disinterest and waved a hand dismissively, ‘I have scrutinised every man, woman and child in green in these last weeks. Don’t let it distract you.’

‘But, sir,’ Pavo continued, ‘It was Senator Tarquitius who let the figure in. . ’

Gallus’ brow furrowed at this, unable to hide his interest, but the clatter of iron and drumming of boots outside shook him back to the more pressing matter. ‘Walk with me,’ he nodded to the tent flap.

He pushed open the tent flap and froze. Outside stood Erwin the Goth.

The old man’s face was drawn and weary. ‘This has gone too far,’ Erwin muttered, ‘and I fear it is already too late.’

Gallus frowned, gripping the man’s shoulders. ‘For the love of the gods, speak!’

Erwin looked up, eyes weary. ‘I feared him so much I let my son’s murder go unpunished. Yet I was once loyal to him. I rode with him, you know.’

‘Him?’ Gallus’ heart thundered.

Erwin’s gaze was distant now. ‘Ivo is the one you seek. He was the Viper’s right hand man. He bears the blue snake stigma under his arm greaves. He carries on the Viper’s legacy — I am sure of it. It is he who has brought us to the brink of war!’

Gallus looked to Pavo who returned his wide eyed gaze. His eyes darted and a thousand voices babbled in his mind. Then he felt a plan forming in the chaos. He gripped Erwin by the shoulders. ‘Make your way to the north of the plain. You could save many lives today, old man!’

With that, he turned back to Pavo. ‘This could be the answer, Pavo; no more grasping at rumours and chasing shades!’